The wonder that's keeping the stars apart
by dustandmonsters
Summary: "What had Sirius done to deserve him, this beautiful, sensible, secure man who loved him, who held him and chased his bad dreams away..." - Wolfstar post-POA. A little angsty, a little fluffy, a little sad.
1. Chapter 1

Sirius had always been something of a messy drunk.

Remus had seen him this way many a time over the years, and, while wearying, it was always a little amusing to watch his friend's carefully cultivated, devil-may-care charmer persona give way to a slight list when he walked and less-than-eloquent speech.

Something else that was beyond him was the one thing Sirius always did when he was in such a state; the reason he was making his way – stumbling just a little – toward Remus across Grimmauld Place's basement kitchen.

"Remus!" Sirius called, tripping the last few paces and throwing an arm around his shoulders. The drink in his hand tipped a little, a pipe resting in the fingers of the other. Remus managed to fake a good-naturedly weary smile for the benefit of Harry and the Weasleys – _you know what he's like, should have stuck with Butterbeer, but he'll never learn..._

"You're enjoying yourself, then?" he said steadily, but somehow his smile started to feel a little more genuine. His friend had spent so long cooped up in this house that he hated, and it was Christmas, and Arthur was going to be okay, and why not celebrate?

"Moony, listen, mate," Sirius began, and Remus suppressed a sigh, "I've been thinking. About me and you."

"I know you have, Padfoot..." Remus told him quietly, trying to head off the inevitable discussion – well, invitation – that they went through every time. "You always –"

"Would you just listen?" Siriuis interrupted, a little irritably, and Remus wondered whether he was quite as drunk as he appeared. Remus was certainly a little tipsy, which was a little out of character for him; would it be so impossible for Sirius to have leant in the opposite direction? He leaned down a little to speak directly into Remus's ear, who was uncomfortably aware that Hermione was watching them – not that anyone else had noticed anything out of the ordinary, but she was more than observant enough to make up for the rest. No one knew about these conversations, either, James and Peter hadn't; it was something that belonged to Moony and Padfoot and no one else.

Remus flashed Hermione a wholly unconvincing smile and tried not to get distracted by his friend's mouth against his earlobe.

"I was thinking," Sirius began anew, "why couldn't this work, you and me? You're my best friend, Rem, you have been since we were at school. Sometimes more so than James... I mean, I loved James, I did –" his brow furrowed as though in confusion; perhaps he felt he was doing his friend a disservice, "- but you always saw things he didn't... quite a few things, actually..." Remus could feel him grinning, and tried not to recall the times to which he knew Sirius was referring. "You remember..."

Remus's sigh turned into a strangled gasp as Sirius's teeth brushed the spot on the side of his neck that always made his knees buckle and _god damn it, get a hold of yourself, _he chastised himself silently, _you're not sixteen anymore, what's wrong with you?_

"Mind, there's a thing or two I'd be hard pressed to forget, myself..." Sirius murmured, his voice rich with amused satisfaction at the reaction he'd created, and Remus tried (unsuccessfully, but valiantly) to ignore the feel of his friend's lips against his unshaven jaw. "The way you looked after a snog... how we always had to be quiet in the dormitory, and you could never quite say my name when you were right on the edge... how you'd get all flushed when you were embarrassed, or riled up, but you'd never say anything... like now..."

"Sirius..."

"Remus..." Sirius replied, sounding triumphant, as if he'd proved a point.

"We're not teenagers anymore... you can't just..." Considering how well-spoken he normally was, Remus was finding it incredibly difficult to get words out, and despite his protests, he was certainly feeling adolescent again. He was determinedly avoiding Hermione's gaze. He inhaled, long and deep, trying to steady himself, but this was a mistake: all it got him was a lungful of the mixed smells of the Firewhisky, pipe smoke, and something else uniquely Sirius – aftershave and something surprisingly clean and masculine Remus couldn't place but had always secretly loved. _Damn it._

"Oh, I can't... ?" And he knew Sirius's grin was impossibly wider as he dropped his drink onto the mantel at Remus's shoulder, and traced his fingertips across the back of his neck, which instantly flushed still more red.

"Someone will see... Hermione..."

"They're all far more gone than I am, Moony, and it's so goddamned loud in here that I don't think anyone can blame me for wanting to get a little closer to you," Sirius replied mock-innocently, with a touch of his old arrogance.

"Sirius, you can't – "

"Always loved it when you said my name," Sirius murmured, "instead of Padfoot... say it again..."

"We - you're drunk," Remus managed to say.

"No more than you," came the calm reply, against his neck. "Come on, Remus, what's to stop us from going upstairs right now and getting to know each other again... it's not the lack of inclination, certainly..."

Remus was sure the sensations of Sirius's fingers playing at the collar of his shirt and Sirius's mouth on his skin would be his undoing; he was, quite literally, weak in the knees... and as he stood there and considered it, he wondered what was to be gained by declining the invitation... _Just because we'll be in a bedroom, _he thought, _doesn't mean anything has to happen. That's a teenager's perception. We're not as young as we used to be... he's right, I suppose, it's not disinterest that's stopping me, is it? _He suppressed a snort. _It's _definitely _not disinterest..._

"Padf – Sirius," Remus started, and Sirius _mmm_ed appreciatively in his ear, "don't you think we should discuss this – I mean –"

"Nothing to discuss," Sirius replied tersely, still smiling, and his fingers slipped around Remus's collar and a couple of inches down the front of his shirt. For the first time, he looked Remus in the eyes. "We want what we want. You're right, we aren't teenagers anymore, we're perfectly at liberty to come back down here later tonight looking exactly like we've just fucked. Neither of us has anything to hide from anyone in this room."

For once, Remus couldn't argue. Sirius was right.

"And you want to..." Sirius continued, catching Remus's earlobe in his teeth, voice as low and positively dirty as it had been a few moments previously, "I know you so well... you want to... you want me, don't you..."

"Fuck," Remus hissed, uncharacteristically. If he was being honest with himself, he was fairly surprised he hadn't come yet, just from this conversation, the tone of Sirius's voice, the sound of his name, his real name, not Moony... and what he was saying...

"I want to take you upstairs," Sirius told him, quietly but clearly, "and I want to do everything to you and with you that we used to... remember?"

"I remember," Remus breathed after a time, and for the first time since Sirius had come over to him, he smiled.

"Well, then, after you," Sirius said, with an exaggerated gesture toward the door.

"You just want to watch me walk in front of you, don't you?"

"Maybe a little." Sirius winked.

Remus grinned and turned to leave, murmuring over his shoulder, "You _will _pay for all of this teasing, Sirius Black."

"Well, you are a man of your word..." he replied. Hermione was scrutinizing them both, her expression unreadable. Sirius tipped an imaginary hat to her and smirked, then followed Remus out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

"What was that you said about not being sixteen anymore?" Sirius asked, blowing hair out of his eyes to look sideways at Remus.

They were sprawled in Sirius's four-poster bed, tangled in the sheets and each other, trying to get their breath back. The hangings on one side had been torn down and lay in a heap on the floor; Remus thought idly that all they had done was get in the way.

"I'll tell you when I remember," he said, rolling over onto his side and reaching over to drag his fingertips lightly down Sirius's ribcage; Sirius leaned into the touch, seemingly unable to stop smiling. "I don't think my brain is functioning properly at the moment."

"You seemed to be fairly in control of your faculties a few minutes ago," Sirius pointed out, catching Remus's hand in his and lacing their fingers together.

Remus took a moment to reflect on what had just happened, and couldn't help but reminisce on similar occasions from two decades previously. It was the professor in him, he supposed; even sex wasn't safe from analytical thinking.

Sirius was certainly as enthusiastic as he had been then: he had fairly tackled Remus the second they had gotten to the landing outside his bedroom door. Remus had managed to catch him, but barely, and they hit the closed door hard enough to rattle the frame. It had been a bit hard to think with Sirius's legs around his waist and tongue down his throat, his hands everywhere, but after a time Remus succeeded in pushing the door open – they tumbled into the room and onto the bed, and then got tangled in the hangings and crashed, laughing, to the floor.

Another happy familiarity was that Sirius was still as vocal as he had been in their school days: from the first kiss to his climax he had kept up a fairly steady stream of talk or at least encouraging noises; Remus had never managed to do so and had to admire him a little (he was also happy to note that Sirius still did that lip-biting thing, something Remus had forgotten he'd liked).

Predictably, there was something distinctly canine in all of Sirius's sounds and the way he moved – Remus supposed the marks he now sported across his neck, shoulders, chest and hipbones would bloom into bruises within a day or two and he had to smile. He recalled a night in their dormitory at Hogwarts on which Sirius had explained, "You've already got so many scars, Moony, why not have a few fun memories attached to some?"

For all the familiarity, there had been differences too: Sirius was leaner than he had once been, thanks to Azkaban, and now sported a number of faded but nonetheless brutal-looking scars of his own. They had no reason nowto dress and collect themselves again as quickly as possible – Remus knew it would be a while before anyone downstairs missed them. He chose instead to indulge in the opportunity ot luxuriate that they had rarely had before, and stretched until his spine cracked, settling back against the pillows.

He realized that Sirius had been watching him, wearing the "I've just slept with your sister" grin that Remus remembered as a constant from their school days (although it was usually Remus, and not anyone's sister, that Sirius had recently slept with).

"You cannot want to have another go already, Padfoot, it's not humanly possible," Remus told him flatly, but couldn't hide his own smile.

Sirius shook his head and chewed on his lower lip a moment before he spoke. "It's just nice to know that some things haven't changed," he said simply, and Remus vaguely considered the possibility that their earlier impact with the door and subsequent tussle with the bed hangings had made him a little loopy (it wouldn't have been the first time sex had left him a little starry-eyed, Remus mentally added, a little smugly).

Before he could reply, though, Sirius was above him again, pinning both of Remus's wrists in one hand, running the other through his hair, grin back in place. "Although, speaking of having another go... I _did_, at great risk to myself and others, become an illegal Animagus for you, so..."

Remus laughed and leaned up to kiss him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Even after twenty years, it was always the same. Sirius supposed it was because they knew each other so well, they couldn't help but fall into the same patterns time and time again. For he and Remus, the lines that separated friendship, love and sex, so clear-cut with James and Peter (and indeed, most of the women Sirius had slept with since) had always been a little blurred.

At Hogwarts, Sirius had been confused: adolescence was always confusing. Between school and friends and dating, the revelation that Remus was a werewolf, OWLs, NEWTs and the constant drama that was James and Lily, Sirius never quite felt that he had his head on straight. Remus was his guidepost, his port in the storm. Sirius knew that he liked girls, but he also knew that Remus may as well have had wings for all his understanding. Remus watched him with a string of conquests, giggling girls coming out of their dormitory with hair tousled and lipstick smeared, and he always understood. Sirius wasn't his _boyfriend,_ after all; he had no claim to him. Remus understood implicitly what Sirius and the other Marauders did not: teenagers fuck up. Things get tangled up, feelings get hurt, hearts break, but it all passes. It gets easier. Adolescence is simply a stage of life that we all experience.

Sirius had always tried, valiantly, to be the same for Remus; a constant, comforting presence in his life, but had to admit to himself he hadn't exactly succeeded. Between spending over a decade in Azkaban and now being stuck in Grimmauld Place, usually with no one but Kreacher, his mother's insufferable portrait and a bottle or two for company, he wasn't doing his best. He was a mess and they both knew it. He would never get his shit together enough to be the man Remus deserved – so if they slept together a few times and everything went back to normal in a few months' time, what of it? It was what they did.

Presently Sirius was sprawled in his chair at the head of the otherwise empty kitchen table, long legs straight and feet resting on the wood. A glass that he had dropped earlier lay in shards upon the floor; instead of repairing it Sirius had proceeded to drink Firewhisky from the bottle. Somewhere behind the haze of drink he registered that this was behaviour of which he should probably be ashamed, but couldn't bring himself to care.

He wondered idly what time it was. He had seen Remus only once, briefly, since they had slept together, a week previously. He tried to tell himself that it was as Remus had said, that he was busy with the Order, but Sirius couldn't help but wonder if Remus was avoiding him. This was his problem, he thought, overanalysing everything.

He heard the front door open and close again a floor above him. It was likely Bill, who had been in and out fairly often relaying news of Arthur's convalescence, knowing Sirius was frustrated at not being able to visit him in St. Mungo's. "Down here," he called, trying not to sound completely plastered.

Instead it was Remus who appeared at the door, one hand resting on the frame and a tired smile on his face. "Hi, love."

Sirius blinked once, hard, and got to his feet, a bit unsteadily. Realization flickered across Remus's features as his gaze fell upon the empty bottle on the table, but Sirius ignored it. He needed to stop over-thinking things for once, for one night. They both did.

So Sirius crossed the room in a few long strides, took Remus's face in both hands and kissed him. It was a moment or two before Remus pulled away, looking at Sirius as though he had never seen him before. "Padfoot – "

"What did I say," whispered Sirius, "about calling me Padfoot?" He took Remus's lip between his teeth as punishment and took a step closer, pinning Remus between him and the doorframe. There was a slow burn in his stomach that had nothing to do with drink, urging him toward recklessness, self-destruction; if this relationship was unhealthy then so be it. Sirius was sick of safety, sick of pacing this empty house, of being of no use to the Order, of worrying about Remus and Harry and Arthur: if the man whose chest was heaving against his at the moment, if loving him, was dangerous then Sirius wanted it, craved it, relished it. At this moment he didn't care if it were his own feelings that got hurt and his own heart that broke, all he could do was _want_.

"You're completely out of it," Remus said; he was breathing hard and his eyes were still closed, but his voice was steady.

"Doesn't matter," Sirius argued against his skin, all teeth and tongue and hands even as Remus tried to still him. He could see that Remus felt this was wrong; he didn't want Sirius like this but oh, Sirius wanted him, and he was going to get him. "I'm going to take you right here," he continued, divesting Remus of his clothing as he spoke – _so many fucking layers, _he thought, disproportionately frustrated, _there's an English winter for you._

"_Fuck, _Sirius, slow down..." Remus was no longer fighting him, but he wasn't responding, either, and continued to let Sirius undress him and attempt to force some kind of reaction from him.

"No," Sirius replied stoutly, reaching for Remus's belt. He held his gaze for a moment before tossing that aside to join Remus's cloak and various other pieces of clothing on the floor. Remus looked back at him steadily, his expression unfathomable. Despite his passivity Sirius could feel him through the boxers and unzipped jeans that still separated them, and kissed him again triumphantly, expecting to feel Remus's hands come up to tug on his hair as they usually did... but no. Sirius growled his displeasure. "For fuck's sakes, Remus..." He sank to his knees on the freezing stone floor, tugging Remus's jeans and boxers down his thighs as he did so. Remus still didn't stop him, but while he would normally be panting Sirius's name at this point he was quiet. He'd been denying himself for long enough, however, that Sirius knew he was seconds from reacting, and he was vindicated a moment later when Remus responded at last: his knees nearly buckled and Sirius's name tore from his throat. Sirius disengaged himself long enough to murmur, "That's what I thought," and Remus let out a half-strangled gasp, half-sob at the loss of contact before Sirius refocused his attention. It was minutes before Remus choked out a warning and came; "_Fuck, Sirius," _dead in his chest.

Sirius stood, wiped his mouth and contemplated Remus: distinctly dishevelled, naked to the waist, weak in the knees and trying to return his heart rate to normal. If Sirius wasn't mistaken, he had just given Remus the first truly toe-curling orgasm he had had in years.

"You can't just... _fuck... _attack me like that, Sirius..." Remus muttered.

"Stop telling me what I can't do," Sirius challenged. "Besides, are you actually complaining?"

"I didn't exactly encourage you," Remus retorted, opening one eye to stare at him.

"You didn't stop me, either."

"You're drunk... you shouldn't have... we shouldn't – "

"But we did. You did. Stop making excuses, Remus."

"I'm not making excuses," he said calmly, starting to dress himself again, "I just think we should at least discuss what's going on –"

"There's nothing to discuss!" Sirius hurled at him, suddenly furious and hating himself. He was lying, Remus was right, they needed to figure this out. But Sirius was sick of talking, sick of not _doing. _"Some things don't need to be endlessly scrutinised, Moony, some things just have to _happen. _I suppose you can't help it, though, you are a _teacher _after all. Would it make you feel better to examine this – me? Make a pro-con list, perhaps?"

Remus glared at him, utterly silent, for at least a full ten seconds before he spoke. "I don't deserve to be spoken to like that, Sirius. I know things are difficult for you right now –" Sirius snorted derisively, "- but there's no need to act this way with me."

"Get out," Sirius spat. He felt far away, like someone else was speaking through his mouth, and he could only watch helplessly.

Remus held his gaze another agonising moment, then turned on his heel and disappeared down the dark hallway. Sirius could hear him ascend the stairs and then the front door open and close once more.

He threw himself into his chair again, slicing open the sole of his bare foot on a piece of the broken glass that still lay there. He pulled it out, dropped it, and otherwise ignored the searing pain and blood dripping steadily onto the floor. Sirius did not know how long he sat there, seething, before he picked up the Firewhisky, drained what was left and threw it. It hit the wall and shattered as the feeling of just-about-to-cry burned in the back of his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't until he got upstairs that Remus noticed his shirt was on inside out.

And backwards, actually. The little white tag nestled just under his Adam's apple was taunting him; somehow he was devastated, destroyed by it. Turning his back on the front door, he leant against it and slid down, heavily and slowly, until he made contact with the floor.

He pressed his palms to his closed eyes and heaved a sigh. Why did they always do this? Every few years they fell back into each other's arms one way or another, and every time it was the same. Both of them bottling up their feelings and secrets and never saying what they meant until it all bled out in snide remarks and sidelong glances, shouting matches that crumbled into throwing dishes or long, seething silences.

He knew Sirius was having a hard time – stuck in this house he so loathed with no possibility of leaving it, constantly feeling useless to the Order, relying on others for news. Sirius was not the kind of man to be content to sit at home with only an ancient house-elf and a screaming portrait for companionship. The worst thing, Remus thought bitterly, was that no one in Sirius's life better understood feeling isolated, and still Sirius was pushing him away.

Remus sat against the door for a moment or two longer, trying to ignore the traces of sweat and saliva and the shadows of bruises all over him; willing the ghosts of Sirius's touch to leave him be. He thought he understood the appeal, at that moment, of drinking until he forgot his name; perhaps Sirius was on the right track with that one.

He got slowly to his feet and turned his shirt out the proper way, the mental image of it in a heap on the kitchen floor not ten minutes previously mocking him. Pushing it out of his mind, he left, slamming the door behind him so Sirius would know he had gone, and turning on his heel, disappeared into the night.

He hadn't realized until he apparated into Hogsmeade that that was where he had been intending to go; with any luck the Three Broomsticks would be so packed and noisy, so late on a Saturday night, that Remus wouldn't be able to hear his own thoughts. That suited him fine tonight.

When he arrived at the pub he saw his assumption had been proven correct; he had to fight his way through the crowd to get a seat at the bar. He flagged down Rosmerta and mumbled a request for Firewhisky.

She took one look at him and did not hesitate, setting a frosted mug down in front of him with a decisive thud. "Woman troubles, love?" she asked.

"Something like that, yes," he replied with a bitter smile.

She made a sympathetic noise and leaned over the bar to kiss his cheek. "We're more trouble than we're worth, most of the time."

_Most of the time. _"Thanks, Rosmerta," he said, and smiling at him, she moved away to contend with the crowd.

Somewhere between his fourth and fifth glasses, Remus lost track of time; his watch kept slipping out of focus every time he tried to look at it. _No matter_, he thought, and upon alighting from his stool promptly tripped over his feet and fell.

_Well, that must have looked pathetic, _chided the tiny part of his brain that was still thinking rationally. He paid it no mind, and concentrated on making it to the door without repeating the incident.

He made it outside without further embarrassing himself, but every step felt like a tremendous effort. He had no sooner thought that perhaps he should go back inside and ask Rosmerta for a room than the huge, solid form of Hagrid swam into his vision.

Remus mumbled what he thought might have approximated a greeting, and leaned into Hagrid, discovering that standing upright was making him a bit dizzy and decided he'd like to stop doing it. Dimly he registered that something felt _wrong_ – the arms that supported him were not lean and sinewy and scarred, the voice above his head was concerned and held no measure of arrogant charm or sardonicism. He was too far gone to give it any more thought, however, and his feet left the ground as Hagrid pulled him easily into a fireman's carry and set off down the snowy street.


	5. Chapter 5

Remus woke up to a profound ringing in his ears, stomach churning, eyes and throat uncomfortably dry. He briefly considered the likelihood of having contracted a terminal illness and realized it was just a hangover. An absolutely vicious one, at that.

Last night started to come back to him in bits and pieces: the argument with Sirius, the Three Broomsticks... he didn't know how much he'd drunk. That could not be good. He recognized the room he was currently in as one that was not his own; in fact, it looked a lot like Sirius's bedroom, except that it was slightly smaller and where Sirius still had a faded Gryffindor banner on the wall, he saw Slytherin's emblem instead. Were he in a state of mind where he was capable of thoughts other than _for the love of Merlin I want to die I am never drinking again what sadistic bastard invented Firewhisky, _he was sure the feeling of sleeping in the old bedroom of a man whom he had known briefly as a teenager and who was now dead would have made his hair stand on end. As it was, he was trying to concentrate on not vomiting.

Remus groaned aloud and rolled over, the pounding in his head intensifying as he moved. _Damn it. _It occurred to him that the t-shirt he was wearing was also not his own: it was actually an old, faded one of Sirius's bearing the words _The Weird Sisters. _

"Yours were soaked through with snow and vomit and about a quart of Firewhisky, in case you were wondering," Sirius said from somewhere to his left, by way of greeting. Remus hadn't heard him enter the room.

"Come again?" he mumbled into the pillow, with a sudden rush of gratitude for every other occasion in his life that speaking had not caused him physical pain.

"Your clothes," Sirius clarified. "I tried to charm yours clean when you got here, but you got a bit shirty with me and insisted I give you that. I think that's what you said, anyway, it was mostly slurring. Lucky for you I speak drunk. Hagrid brought you here, by the way, didn't want to leave you at your place alone – he said he found you falling all over Hogsmeade about four o'clock this morning. " He said all of this in a polite, detached tone vaguely reminiscent of Luna Lovegood.

"Fantastic. That is just great..."

"Well, you never could hold your alcohol, mate," Sirius said – the last word hung in the air between them; however small the term of endearment was, with the current state of things between them it felt awkward.

"I think a scalding shower and coffee in a bucket are in order," Remus announced, seeking to gloss over the moment – not an easy feat given that he was in boxers and Sirius's shirt and that most of the previous night was a blank.

Sirius nearly smiled. "I'll leave you to it, then." With that he left, closing the door behind him – a little tentatively, Remus thought; maybe he was trying to be considerate of the splitting headache Remus was currently experiencing.

He couldn't dwell on it too much at the moment, however with the Herculean feat of standing upright to deal with. He wasn't at all sure he could get out of bed without falling over, much less shower, dress himself and, at some point, face Sirius.

He did indeed get himself wrapped up in the sheets in trying to vacate the bed and fell hard onto his shoulder. _Merlin, I need to stop doing that._ Somehow, he dragged himself into the en-suite bathroom, soap and clean towels waiting for him. Remus ran the shower, letting the mirror and small window steam up a bit while he undressed.

He pulled the shirt off over his head and the smell of Sirius wrenched his stomach as surely as it had that evening just over a week ago. He didn't know what made him do it, but he folded the shirt carefully before placing it on the floor next to his own discarded boxers and socks.

He stepped into the shower and instantly groaned in relief; the water was scalding and offered an instant comfort to his tired, tense muscles. His shoulder twinged particularly painfully and Remus vaguely recalled falling the night before. "I am never drinking again," he muttered.

He heard the bathroom door open and close and for one fleeting, irrational moment thought Sirius was going to hex him, cursing himself for not locking the bathroom door. _Don't be an idiot, _he told himself, _Sirius is not going to hex you. Take his shirt back, likely, but not hex you._

He was half right: Sirius neither jinxed him nor repossessed his t-shirt but instead stepped into the shower behind Remus, who turned to look at him, blinking water from his eyes, unsure of what to say. But Sirius merely waved a bottle of shampoo at him with the ghost of a smile, and gestured that he should turn back around.

Remus complied and a moment later felt Sirius's hands thread themselves into his hair. He thought he knew how a cat felt when you scratched under its chin – it was a small contact, but even when Sirius touched him in the tiniest ways it was always languorous, easy, comfortable: simple and familiar and achingly sweet.

Meticulously, Sirius rinsed every lock of Remus's hair from roots to ends, taking care to keep the shampoo out of his eyes. Knowing a warm rush of affection for him Remus leaned his head back onto Sirius's shoulder unconsciously; Sirius kissed his neck once, twice, three times and said, "The shirt always looked better on you."

It was as close as Sirius had ever come to an apology. Remus turned to him, suddenly a little anxious. "Are we okay, Padfoot?" he asked, eyes searching. "After last night, I mean – "

"Padfoot, he says." Sirius grinned and took Remus's face in his hands. "I know you're going to want to have a long, weepy, heart-to-heart conversation about this whole thing, but do you think you could shut up for now? Because I've heard that a long and, by nature, far more satisfying, makeup shag in the shower is a _very_ effective hangover cure..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Thank you, all you lovely people, for reading and review and favouriting! I'm really new to this so it means a lot.**

**I have a confession to make, though - there is next to no planning involved with this story. I just write things as they come to me, which means this could end up being very long and a little aimless; or the opposite. I don't write smut, either, so I think I'll start venturing out of my comfort zone a little on that one also.**

**I will try my best to make it not suck, for you.**

**If anyone has any suggestions, con crit, anything whatsoever, please please please let me know! I'd love to hear from you.**

**I love you all. Go manage your mischief, my dears.**

**x**

* * *

><p>Sirius was looking for something.<p>

He didn't know what it was, but it didn't matter – he craved it, needed it. He was desperate for it, and time was running out.

He was running through the halls of Grimmauld Place, tearing through closets and cabinets, overturning chairs, emptying drawers, and he could not find it. He could not find it and he needed it.

Fear, adrenaline, crushing urgency tore at his heart as he turned the corner into the front hallway and took off running down it, blood pounding in his ears. He tripped over the umbrella stand and fell, sprawling, landing hard and scraping both palms. He could feel them start to bleed as the curtains covering his mother's portrait flew open and she began to scream. "_MUDBLOODS, SCUM, CREATURES OF FILTH..."_

Sirius paid her no mind; he did not have time to waste for her, he had to go, he had to get out. He scrambled to his feet and wrenched open the front door, flying over the threshold into Azkaban.

Dementors were swarming the place; they were everywhere, but they did not touch him. He did not care why, he had to keep going. He ran: he could not stop, he ran until his mother's voice was eclipsed by the sound of his own pounding feet and terrified, ragged breathing. He ran through a hundred cold, labyrinthine hallways until he found the cell he knew had been his own –

Remus was sitting there, behind the bars, calm and reserved as he ever was; his face lit in a smile when he saw Sirius.

But Sirius could not get to him. He was crying Remus's name over and over, throat raw, and his hands were still bleeding, split wide open. Blood was pouring from them down his wrists and forearms, stinging, smearing the stone walls and the bars of the cell door as the Dementors descended. Their cold, dead hands grasped his stained wrists, arms, shoulders, torso, and pulled him back, away from the man he loved. Sirius was shouting himself hoarse as he fought them and still Remus was smiling, smiling...

Sirius awoke with Remus's name on his lips, panicked, tears and cold sweat mingling and soaking his face and neck.

And then Remus was there, reaching for him, warm and solid and reassuring. "Sirius – Sirius, I'm here, I'm right here, it was only a dream... just a dream, Sirius, it's okay, you're okay..."

Remus was just talking, just trying to comfort him, and somehow it was working; the sound of his own name was calming him. Remus was pushing his hair back, wiping his face with the corner of a bedsheet, murmuring words of comfort while he tried to get his breath back. "I'm right here, it's okay, it's okay..."

After a moment or two Sirius regained his composure, wrapping his arms firmly around Remus's waist, breathing in the safe, clean scent of him. "Just a fucking nightmare..." And he laughed aloud with relief; albeit a weak, raspy, watery laugh.

"What happened?" Remus asked, and Sirius nearly wept then and there – what had Sirius done to deserve him, this beautiful, sensible, secure man who loved him, who held him and chased his bad dreams away...

"Just... fuck... Azkaban. You." He sighed. He couldn't bring himself to explain, but he knew Remus understood. Wiping at his eyes, he smiled weakly at the dark shape of Remus next to him, silhouetted in the faintest light of the early, early dawn outside the window.

Sirius allowed Remus to pull him closer, entwining their legs, arms, fingers; enfolding him as much as possible.

"You're too good for me," Sirius mumbled. He felt inexplicably ashamed, childish, hot with embarrassment.

"Shut up," Remus replied, not sharply.

"Remus – "

"I know you're going to want to have a long, weepy, heart-to-heart conversation about this eventually," Remus said, and in the dark Sirius could feel him smiling, "but do you think you could shut up for now?"

They lay awake for a long time, breathing in tandem, whispering the occasional word or two in one another's general direction; and fell into a light, dreamless sleep as the sun rose.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! If anyone's been waiting with bated breath for this chapter, I'm sorry :P I should be back to updating fairly regularly from now on - not quite five-chapters-in-a-week regular, but nonetheless, a little more routinely. **

**This chapter is mostly fluff, but it solidifies the relationship a bit, finally - their "long, weepy, heart-to-heart conversation," if you will. Enjoy, and please review, lovelies! (:  
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**x**

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><p>Sirius's nightmares persisted for weeks.<p>

Since Azkaban, they had come and gone in spells. Every night played out the same: Sirius would wake up in the dead of night, soaked in cold sweat, retching and gasping and reaching for Remus, and Remus could only hold him, offering words of comfort that were beginning to feel decreasingly comforting.

Remus was at Grimmauld Place almost every night, now. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Sirius had stopped apologizing for keeping him from his home, and that the warmth of Sirius's bed was beginning to feel, once again, more familiar than his own.

Even with the prospect of crawling into bed next to each other to get them through their days, the stress was catching up with both of them again; Sirius was looking more pale and drawn than ever. For a brief time they had been in a world of their own, sheltered, protecting each other, untouched by the discordant messes of their respective lives, but they could not stay so for much longer.

Remus knew Sirius was feeling progressively more isolated as the days went by; and the constant comings and going of the other Order members could only distract him so much. There had been a tense moment with Severus the other day – Remus hadn't been around, but dropped in hoping for a quiet dinner with Sirius and, if he was being honest, a thorough, stress-relieving shag on the sitting room floor immediately afterward. He got both, but only after being treated to a long, grumbling, profanity-laced tirade – "came to speak to Harry... _Dumbledore's orders, _the greasy prat... should just _sectumsempra _the bastard and do us all a fucking favour..."

Following the aforementioned shag, Remus was lying on the sitting room floor and was incredibly grateful the carpet had been recently cleaned, when Sirius moved to curl up on the couch. He indicated that Remus should join him and wrapped them both in the blanket that lay over the back of it. Remus half-reclined with his back against the planes of Sirius's lean, scarred chest, tracing his fingers over Sirius's open palm.

"Remus?" Sirius asked after a moment, his other hand idly ruffling the hair around Remus's ear.

"Hmm?" Remus let his eyes drift half-closed, serene, post-coital calm stealing over him.

"Do you ever think about us living together?"

This gave Remus pause. "We lived together for the better part of seven years, love," he reminded him, stalling, trying to figure out how to approach this conversation.

"Yes, you prat, with James and Peter," Sirius replied, "but given that we were pubescent and were fed all our meals by a legion of scarily enthusiastic house-elves, I don't think it really counts."

"I do; I've had just about all of you I can take – this was actually just breakup sex, didn't I tell you? I'm moving to Romania just to get away from you," Remus deadpanned, smirking.

"Look, if you don't want to talk about this, fine," Sirius mumbled, "I just thought... I don't know, maybe – "

"Oh, shut it," Remus interrupted, and couldn't hide a smile at Sirius's embarrassment. "Of course I've thought about it. I love you, it's not completely ridiculous to assume –"

"Remus John Lupin," Sirius interrupted in turn, sounding deeply amused about something, "what did you just say?"

"I said of course I've thought about us living together," Remus repeated a little cautiously and turned to face him; he was utterly confused by Sirius's tone and expression.

"'I love you'?" Sirius mimicked, one eyebrow raised.

Remus considered him for a long moment, realizing they had never, _ever _said it before and he had done so without thinking and oh _Merlin shit shit shit shit shit... _"Sirius, I – fuck. I meant – "

"I love you, too, you blithering fucking _idiot._"

"...Oh."

"Right then." Sirius kissed him; Remus took a moment to respond, thoroughly bewildered at the change in direction the conversation had taken. "But you didn't answer my question, not really..."

"...What question?"

"Merlin, you are thick, aren't you... and Dumbledore let you teach... about us living together."

"I suppose – maybe, given the right circumstances," Remus began, "the day we don't have Voldemort to worry about and this fate-of-the-wizarding-world business looming over our heads... when you can live somewhere that isn't also headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix..." Remus felt Sirius relax a little, and turning around, leant back into him, as he imagined a future.

"We could have a little house on a hill somewhere... near a good pub, of course..." Sirius chuckled. "A room for my books. And a vegetable garden..." Sirius snorted, but did not interject. "Okay, maybe not a garden. A hammock out back, summers on the beach... a big tree in the sitting room at Christmas..."

Remus rambled on for a time, Sirius chiming in every now and then. It was difficult, Remus sometimes thought, to stop himself from picturing a simple, _ordinary_ existence regardless of what the rational side of his mind was telling him – that things would never be that simple, that he couldn't have a never-ending supply of Wolfsbane, that Sirius would never settle down... a string of nevers without solutions.

It was an aching, bittersweet thought that pulled at Remus's heart every so often; growing old with Sirius. One that he usually kept to himself. But it was hard not to think – even in this empty, dusty, cavernous house – that the feel of Sirius's fingers tracing light tattoos across his neck and shoulders, Sirius's strong, steady heartbeat against his back, weren't all that he needed in the world to make him happy.


	8. Chapter 8

**I am a dirty liar. ****I said I'd update regularly, and I haven't.**

**I'm sorry! I'm a horrible bitch for taking anyone's interest for granted. ****I appreciate you, truly!**

**Also, this chapter is fluffy, because the next two won't be. Sorry again, if you were hoping for substance ;)**

**I love you, really!**

**x**

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><p>Months passed. Slowly, winter edged into spring, which was starting to give way to the first signs of summer.<p>

Sirius recognized that restless feeling that always occupied him in the last days of May; something to do with having spent seventeen years of his life marking his time in seasons – he supposed it was an innate, biological-clock sort of thing he hadn't quite outgrown after leaving Hogwarts.

There was another reason, though. He had Remus to consider. Things between them hadn't deteriorated, exactly, far from it; but he knew it was only a matter of time before they had the talk.

They were not fighting, not constantly at each other's throats over perceived slights and misinterpreted remarks. Nor were they bored, listless, having simply run out of things to talk about. Their sex life certainly wasn't suffering, either, not if Sirius had anything to say about it – during the last Order meeting, actually, Sirius had been happily absorbed in the memory of a recent Sunday, the course of which had involved activities on and underneath the kitchen table and chairs that made meals there at the very least a little unsanitary.

No, it was simply time. Remus would sit him down and they would discuss, in measured, reasonable tones, the State of Their Relationship. Regardless of the course of this conversation, it generally ended in sex, so Sirius couldn't complain wholeheartedly.

Presently he was sprawled on his bed, contemplating his teenage self's choice in decoration. Where Regulus's bedroom still housed banners and hangings in Slytherin's colours, here red and gold dominated. Faded photos of Muggle women straddling motorcycles bedecked one wall; the rest were mostly wizarding photos of Remus, James, Peter and himself. Their grinning, young faces reminded him of something.

He slid off the bed and, crossing to his closet, began to root through it: a shoebox of photos, letters and the like lay dusty and alone on the shelf at eye level. Sirius handled these with carefully, almost reverently - he could easily have fixed with magic any one that was torn or damaged, yes, but they deserved a little respect. Especially the one he was looking for.

After a moment of rummaging and a brief instant of blind panic that he had somehow misplaced it, he found his favourite photo.

A black-and-white, seventeen-year-old Remus lay on his side in his bed, in their Hogwarts dormitory. He was propped on one elbow, naked at least to the waist – the bedsheet lay across his lean hips - and dishevelled, whether from sex or sleep Sirius couldn't remember. He ran his unoccupied hand through his hair (somehow all the Marauders had picked up that bloody stupid habit from James) smiled, and waved up at Sirius (who almost waved back). The patchwork of scars that criss-crossed his skin was somehow less noticeable here than it usually was, and Sirius recalled laying hundreds of kisses across every one of them; eliciting, alternately, low laughs from Remus in his ticklish spots and the tiniest breathless, delicious sounds in his more sensitive ones.

A rush of affection for the boy in the photo and the man he had become welled up in Sirius then, an almost-physical warm weight low in his chest, so quickly and suddenly his breath caught. He could not have explained the feeling, where it had come from, why it was there, what the fuck he had done to warrant even the tiniest amount of reciprocation, but there it was. He was as confused, lost, frustrated as he had ever been, but Remus was a constant; an ever-fixed mark.

A stair creaked; it resounded in the silence like a gunshot. A hundred irrational thoughts flooded Sirius's mind in the way they do when one is in a big, empty house, alone, though he knew it was only accessible to members of the Order. All the same, he reached for his wand. "Moony?"

"It's me," came Remus's voice from the landing, and he appeared in the doorway.

"You just about gave me a heart attack, you know..." Sirius muttered, dropping his wand, only half-pretending to be annoyed.

Remus took in the sight of Sirius sitting on his bedroom floor, surrounded as he was by pictures and letters and bits of memory, and (though Sirius was sure he wanted to) didn't ask what had brought on this sudden burst of sentimentality; Sirius was silently grateful. Instead he crossed the threshold and folded himself easily onto the floor next to Sirius; their knees were touching. "Which one are you looking at?"

Sirius couldn't resist: he leaned over and pressed a light kiss once, twice, to the spot where Remus's neck met his shoulder, holding the photo out of reach. "Just my favourite werewolf..."

He could almost hear Remus roll his eyes. "Prat..." Remus muttered and reached across him. He studied the photo for a moment, the smallest crease appearing between his eyebrows, and laughed. "I can't believe you still have this."

"What, did you think I'd get rid of it?"

"Leave it to you to keep the one you took post-coital..."

So it had been sex, Sirius thought, more than a little smugly. "I like the way you look post-coital."

"You're a child."

"What does that make you? Pervy old child-fancier?" Sirius murmured, pulling Remus to him to wrap his arms around the other's waist.

Remus laughed. "I'd like that on my tombstone, if you don't mind: 'Here lies Remus John Lupin; friend, teacher, child molester'."

"I'll see what I can do..." Sirius mused, lips wandering absently over Remus's face and neck.

They passed a happy hour immersed in reminiscences, coming upon faces neither had seen in years – James, Lily, Peter, Regulus... Frank and Alice, the original Order of the Phoenix... they filled in the gaps in each other's memories, supplying details they'd forgotten, stopping now and then to kiss and just hold each other, lazy and happy...

During one such small intermission Sirius marvelled inwardly at the simple fact that Remus was _there, _in his arms – he was cringing a little at how he would have sounded did he ever try to articulate this to him; but Remus was just such an unflaggingly _good _person, straightforward, reasonable, and Sirius couldn't help but wonder for what may well have been the millionth time how he'd gotten so goddamned lucky.

Remus kissed the way most people spoke – there was no word for it but _expressive. _Sirius could always tell exactly what he wanted, exactly what he was thinking. Without breaking away from him Sirius pulled Remus easily into his lap and they stayed there, on the floor, leaning back against the side of his bed but making no move to crawl into it. He recalled a hundred NEWT study sessions in the Gryffindor common room, how they'd start with Sirius sprawled easily in an armchair by the fire, flirting with anything in a skirt; Remus sighing and throwing bits of paper at him to try and recapture his attention. It was only after everyone else had gone to bed, in the earliest hours of the morning, that the fire started to die and they relied on each other to keep warm instead – robes discarded, they wrapped themselves in each other's limbs and hair and scents, well aware that they could be interrupted at any moment but too distracted to care. There was something insular about those rushing, feverish entanglements; all hot skin and sweat and whispered profanities, mouths and hands roaming everywhere they could reach – pieces of them that belonged only to each other; secret but never something to be ashamed of.

Presently Remus raked a hand up Sirius's chest and tugged a lock of his hair gently to get his attention. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here, love," Sirius assured him, grinning a little crookedly.

"I mean, I know you're _here,_" Remus qualified, rolling his hips forward the tiniest bit to make his point and earning an absolutely sinful noise and a request to "holy _fuck_ do that again" from the man underneath him, "but you disappeared for a minute."

"I was just thinking. Reminiscing. Seems to be the theme of the afternoon..."

"It does, indeed." Remus kissed him again, humming contentedly into his mouth, and Sirius decided (especially given that Remus was far better now at snogging and all of the lovely things that tended to accompany it than he was at seventeen) that perhaps he should, at least for the moment (and serious conversation be damned), leave the past in the past and enjoy what he had in the present.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sirius... wake up."

Remus received no response from the thoroughly-asleep Sirius next to him; his bare chest rose and fell in the steady, calm rhythm of sleep.

Remus, for his part, was the exact opposite – jolted wide awake by lurid, too-realistic nightmares full of dark rooms and Sirius's smiling face just beyond his reach. He could not shake the irrational feeling that something was _wrong - _ a blind, nameless, clawing panic had taken hold of Remus and he just needed Sirius to wake up and tell him he was being stupid and to go back to sleep, and to bitch that he should have at least gotten laid if he was waking up this fucking early.

"Padfoot."

Sirius awoke slowly, pressing his palms to his eyes and yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. He stretched, back arching off the mattress, and rolled over. "Morning, love," he murmured, reaching to pull Remus close to him by the waist and wrap him up in his arms. Involuntarily, Remus tensed for the briefest of seconds; that, combined with his expression, was enough to make Sirius sit up in mild alarm. Even half-asleep, Remus marvelled, he looked like a dishevelled prince; the aristocratic lines of his face belied his pureblood lineage even underneath his tousled hair and three days' worth of stubble. "What's the matter?" His voice was rough; with their legs tangled together, his hands skimmed down Remus's skin to stop at his hips and traced lazy, slow circles around the small of his back.

Remus sighed and bit his lip. For a man who firmly believed in analyzing and talking through his problems, he had nothing to say. "It's stupid... sorry I woke you. I just... no, don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

"Remus..." Sirius's brow furrowed.

"It's fine. Really." Remus smiled apologetically, or tried to.

Sirius studied his face a moment in that frank, unnerving way he sometimes had, and looked as though he were going to press the issue, but thankfully let it slide. "If you say so," he said cautiously. "Moony – "

"Padfoot. Forget it." Remus felt like an idiot – even the sight of Sirius's eyes bright with concern, instead of reassuring him, made him feel worse. "Just go back to sleep, and I'll have coffee waiting when you get up, alright?"

"No, I'll get up... have a shower... " Sirius muttered and, taking Remus's hands from around his neck, pressed a kiss to both and extracted himself from the bed.

Sirius turned from Remus to head into the bathroom and that merciless white fear rose in him again so quickly it was nearly paralyzing; he could not bear to watch Sirius walk away from him, but found no way to express it. All he knew was he was scared and he didn't know why and he _needed _Sirius.

Sirius heard him move and turned back, pushing hair from one eye. "Are you coming?"

Remus did not answer; without knowing quite how he had crossed the bed, nearly fallen out of it in fact, and stood there in front of Sirius for a half-second before taking his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

If Sirius was surprised (and he should have been) he hid it well. He responded in kind, one hand pushing into Remus's hair and the other between them, palm flat over his heart. Remus was silently grateful he did not ask questions. If he had, Remus could not have explained what was the matter with him, he only knew that he needed Sirius here, close, wrapped up in him in every way.

Remus felt the backs of his knees hit the mattress and pulled Sirius roughly back onto it with him, into the sheets upon which they had made love and made plans countless times, that smelled of them both. Remus would not let himself stop to breathe or think, Sirius was all he could see, Sirius's familiar mouth and hands all he could feel. Sirius was impossibly warm, flushed, hard and strong on top of him; his weight was comforting in a way Remus couldn't articulate. Sirius was giving as much as he was taking, half-sighing and half-growling Remus's name into his ear; his voice broke and words failed him and Remus was savagely satisfied.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the bit that wasn't concentrating on murmuring love and filth into Sirius's neck or gripping his hips hard enough to bruise them, Remus marvelled at the incredible pace at which they were going; he was close already – he could feel it coiled low in his stomach even if his brain was telling him _this isn't healthy you know ignoring it like this you're going to have to figure it out eventually no matter how fucking incredible you feel right now he loves you he loves you..._

"Fuck, _Remus – " _Sirius ground out and Remus realized he had sunk his teeth into Sirius's shoulder hard enough to draw blood; the sight of it shocked him. He murmured half an apology, half a warning as he came and that was all it took; Sirius followed seconds later.

The light sheen of sweat that accompanies orgasm cooled on them both as they lay there, Remus apologizing over and over against Sirius's broken skin as though his kiss could heal it, tasting salt and soap and the metallic tang of blood. "I'm sorry, love, I'm so, so sorry, god... I'd never hurt you, not on purpose, fuck, fucking hell, I'm so sorry, I love you, I love you..."

Then Sirius was the one soothing him, telling him not to be stupid, it was fine, he'd just surprised him, and Remus realized he must have been scaring the hell out of Sirius acting like this, all this panic and with no explanation, out of the blue. He opened his mouth to apologize yet again, but Sirius silenced him with a kiss.

"I suppose I really need that shower now, hmm?" he said against Remus's mouth, with the slightest of smiles. They broke apart and Sirius's eyes said he understood, Remus didn't need to explain.

Remus thought his heart might break. He had so much to say, but he just _couldn't, _and for Sirius to just accept it...

"I love you, you know," he managed.

"I _know, _you sentimental berk," Sirius said; he caught Remus's earlobe between his teeth and kissed his neck fleetingly before rolling out of bed, "now please shut up and go get that coffee started, would you?"


	10. Chapter 10

Sirius had almost forgotten what it felt like to be afraid.

Worry, stress, frustration – he was certainly no stranger to those; especially these last few months, what with Harry and the Order and Arthur's accident at Christmas. But fear – it had been years since he had felt genuine fear.

Mad-Eye, Kingsley and Tonks had been round most of the afternoon, discussing business as usual; Severus had shown up not fifteen minutes ago to explain a problem at Hogwarts – Sirius understood, outside of the thoughts of _what is he doing in my house, the snivelling git, and looking at me like that, he's lucky I don't put him through a wall_ that he normally experienced when Snape was around, that for some reason, Harry, Ron and Hermione were in the Department of Mysteries, and had recently been confronted by most of Voldemort's Death Eaters.

As Mad-Eye started barking orders at everyone and Sirius was half-thinking that it was probably a bit disconcerting that he would happily kill a number of his blood relatives with his bare hands, Bellatrix and Lucius being at the top of the list, Severus spoke up again.

"Oh, and Black?"

Just the sound of his voice was enough to send a thrill of irritation up Sirius's spine; never mind that Snape was clearly going to relish whatever he had to say. Sirius met his eyes.

"Yes, Snivellus?" (He couldn't resist, old habits die hard.)

"Dumbledore's asked that you stay here. You understand, I'm sure, it wouldn't do for a convicted murder to stroll into the Ministry of Magic... I daresay you'd much rather stay here, at any rate, let the others take the risks..."

"I'd watch the way you speak to my in my house, Severus," Sirius retorted, instantly tense, "but then, you always had a smart mouth, didn't you? I seem to recall it getting you into a fair bit of trouble on more than one occasion – never won you points with Lily, did it?"

A strange expression crossed Snape's face then; they had both drawn their wands. "Black – "

"_Honestly, _Sirius..." Remus was at his shoulder; his eyes flickered between them before he steered Sirius out into the hall, pointedly ignoring Snape's equally pointed remark about "Lupin having to step in like always, like a good boy..."

"Clearly, we don't have a lot of time," Remus said in a rush, glancing back at the kitchen door before turning to face him. "If I get out of this – "

"_When _we get out of this – "

"_Sirius, _listen – "

"Remus – "

"Would you just – "

"I want you to know – "

"I _know – "_

"_Remus,_" Sirius began anew, "shut up for a second, and listen to me. There is absolutely no way I am staying here with Snivellus. I'm coming with you." The look on Remus's face was answer enough. "You and Harry – " he paused, breathed deep, and tried again. "You and Harry are all I have. I'm not sitting in this house waiting for news. I'm coming with you."

"I never could stop you from doing particularly idiotic things, you know. Merlin knows I tried." Remus smiled weakly, tired – he was always so tired.

"I know," Sirius said; the reality of the situation hit him like a brick. This was happening. He did the only thing he could; wrapped both arms around Remus's waist, pulling him close, and kissed him. Remus's hands came up to the nape of his neck, gripping hard enough to bruise, mouth hungry and hot and needy even as two hearts broke in their respective chests. It wasn't until they stopped, reluctantly even if they were millimetres apart, that Sirius realized the tears rapidly drying on his skin belonged to both of them.

He buried himself in the crook of Remus's neck, inhaling the smell of salt and musk and wolf, murmuring oaths and promises that Remus couldn't have been able to hear clearly, but he meant them just the same, fierce and sincere.

Remus was holding him so tightly Sirius was sure his bones would crack; when they broke apart he felt it like the loss of a limb. A million things – he tried not to think _last words_ – that seemed suddenly very important to say occurred to him in that second. He settled for the truth – his teenage self cringed to think that adult-Sirius was such a walking cliché, but teenage-Sirius was a bit of a prat anyway.

"I love you, you know."

"I love you, present tense," Remus said, "always bloody have, past tense; and will continue to do so, future tense; even though you are a complete idiot and you make me crazy."

"I'll take what I can get," Sirius replied, and, wiping at their eyes, the two of them turned and headed back into the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11

**SORRY AGAIN that this took forever. It was really hard to write.**

**LAST CHAPTER, can you believe it?**

**I've had fun writing this; my very first multichapter fic. Thanks for sticking with me.**

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><p>It had been precisely four weeks and six days.<p>

On precisely five of those days, Remus had managed to function like a normal human being – he got out of bed, made tea. He listened to music on the old record player his parents had given him for his fifteenth birthday, he opened the kitchen windows to let in the summer breeze. He cooked and dressed himself and dozed in the sun in his small back yard, a battered paperback novel shielding his eyes.

On those days, he had thought he might be okay.

On the other twenty-nine, though... he had to constantly remind himself to breathe. Inhale, exhale.

Sometimes he would have a record on and not notice the side was finished; it would just keep going, the needle making the tiniest regular sounds over and over against the vinyl. He would begin to cook and forget what he was doing until the kitchen curtains started to smoke; cut himself shaving and not even feel it, be surprised the blood on his fingertips; he would stay in the shower until the heat ran out and the cold water jerked him back to awareness.

Inhale, exhale.

Sleep was the hardest. He would doze in fits and starts, and at odd hours; he would find himself lying in bed staring at his ceiling, wide awake, until the sun came up and then nod off standing up over his coffee. He would go days without sleeping at all; without doing much of anything, really.

He hadn't been back to Grimmauld Place, not yet. Dumbledore had been round his flat to tell him about Sirius's will – he had left everything to Harry, apparently, with the exception of a few personal effects, and Remus was to go and get them when he found the time. That was what Dumbledore had said, "when you find the time," but not what he had meant – "when you feel like you can stand up without the floor falling away from your feet," was what he had meant, because he knew. Of course he knew; the man was omniscient.

Inhale, exhale.

On the fifth Saturday morning, Remus found himself awake entirely too early, having moved from bed to couch back to bed in another vain attempt to chase down a few hours of sleep. Five weeks ago today, he realized, agonizingly; it felt like some sort of benchmark: _five weeks after. I will be okay. I will go to Grimmauld Place today and I will hold it together,_ he thought.

He apparated to the doorstep of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, in the cool damp of early summer morning. Once inside, he had to take a moment; even one step inside the house felt like too much. Sirius's scent was on everything; not for the first time Remus felt a lash of blind anger toward the wolf side of him and the heightened senses it afforded.

The journey from the front hall to the kitchen, the old meeting place, felt ten times as long as usual. Inhale, exhale.

Dumbledore was there, of course. Though he looked a little tired, he was serene as ever; Remus envied him silently as Dumbledore rose and crossed the room to him.

He looked for a moment as though he would like to ask how Remus was holding up, but then thought better of it, and shook his hand instead. "There is a cardboard box addressed to you, upstairs, in Sirius's bedroom – I have perused his last will and testament," he explained, with characteristic calm. "If you are reluctant, and understandably so, to retrieve it, I can –"

"It's fine," Remus interrupted; his voice sounded long-disused, even to him. He considered how he must look; unshaven (and likely un-showered; he'd lost track of the days again), gray and lined with exhaustion and grief. "I'll – I can do it. Thanks, Albus." Dumbledore nodded and released his hand.

He marvelled that the house seemed to have grown in size since he had last been in it; once again, getting from the kitchen to the landing outside Sirius's bedroom seemed to take an age. The door was ajar.

Inhale, exhale.

He did not know what he had been expecting the room to look like, but it was unchanged; obviously, exactly as he and Sirius had left it over a month before. The bed was unmade; the faintest outline of the shapes of their bodies on it was still visible. The scent of Sirius was ten times more prevalent here than downstairs; it was soaked into everything like water.

The box was sitting unobtrusively on the foot of the bed, a note affixed to its top.

_Remus – my dearest, darlingest, very Moony-est Moony –_

_In case I perish unexpectedly – you know, fiery motorbike crash, heart attack mid-shag (or mid-shag on the motorbike, har har), what have you – everything in here is to you. Hell, some of it might be yours, I'm sure we ended up with each other's things more than a few times over the years. _

_If this is the case – and you'll forgive me for getting a bit dramatic here – you should just know, like you don't already –_

_I was always yours. Yes, even when I drove you mad being an argumentative, self-centered little fifteen-year-old prick, you had me."You sentimental prat," you're saying now, I know. I can just picture it – you've got that look on your face, that "Sirius, you're driving me mad being an argumentative, self-centered little fifteen-year-old prick, but I suppose you are alright nonetheless," expression._

_Merlin knows what I did to deserve you._

_If I really am dead now, I suppose that's it – I was always yours, and now I always will be._

_I love you, I love you._

_Pads x_

Remus didn't realize he was crying at first; until the tears spilled over and fell thick and fast and silently into his lap. Setting the note aside, he began to go through the box's contents – photographs, letters and the like; a twig Sirius had somehow managed to procure from the Whomping Willow the night of their graduation (it still twitched feebly in his palm); his Gryffindor scarf; his silver pocket watch; a couple of early incarnations of the Marauder's Map. Lying in a corner of the box was a heavy, gaudy ring engraved with a P, strung onto a slightly less ostentatious chain. _For Padfoot, _Remus remembered – James had bought them all matching ones as a graduation gift; monstrous things, they were, just awful, what seventeen-year-old boy has good taste in jewellery, especially in the late 1970s? Sirius had consented to wear his round his neck; Peter had put his on and presumably not taken it off since; James wore his once or twice and had been buried with it; Remus's was in a drawer in his nightstand at home.

Smiling to himself, just a little, Remus fished it out and hung it around his own neck, tucking it into the front of his shirt.

Inhale, exhale.

He realized with fierce suddenness that without Sirius, he was well and truly alone in the world now; it hit him hard and with such sharp, unforgiving clarity that his breath hitched, and then he was crying in earnest. He cried until his throat was raw, until his chest ached, sitting there on the edge of the bed hugging his own elbows, the silver ring cold against his flushed skin.

He did not know how long it lasted; but finally, finally, he pulled himself together. His breathing returned to something resembling normal, his sobs quieted, and he wiped his face on his holey, worn sleeves.

It came to him that there was something twisted into the bedsheet upon which he sat; he hunted for it with damp, trembling hands and came up with Sirius's _Weird Sisters _t-shirt.

Remus almost laughed, something resembling a watery, weak chuckle. He buried his face in it and immersed himself in its scent; it was surprisingly warm and soft.

It was almost, he thought, like some sort of talisman, a reminder. A little piece of Sirius left behind to help him manage; nudge him through the days he thought he just couldn't get through alone. And then he did smile – leave it to Sirius, the persistent bastard, to make sure that if he wasn't the last remaining Marauder, whoever it was wouldn't forget him.

As if Remus ever would forget him; as if he ever could.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.


End file.
